


Rudis

by lecroixss



Series: What am I doing?!: MCU Kink Bingo 2017 edition [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, MCU kink bingo 2017, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slavery, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, dubcon because Steve is a slave, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 15:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12585316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecroixss/pseuds/lecroixss
Summary: The Winter Soldier is a lauded gladiator, but he only wants one thing: his freedom. Well, that and a fiery slave named Steve Rogers.WARNING that non-con is implied due to the nature of Ancient Roman slavery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was done for MCU Kink Bingo (my first time! AHHH!), but is completely inspired by Just_East’s “To Dust or To Gold,” which I think is amazing and wish was still in progress. D: Thank you so much for writing, Just_East! As I’ve said, you are an inspiration. <3
> 
> Warning that, by the nature of the setting (ancient Rome), it's very heavily implied that slaves are forced into sex on a regular basis. Non-con isn't actually written, but you could definitely spin that the explicit scene here is dubcon, since technically a slave can't really say no.
> 
> It's been suggested to caution that Chapter 3 isn't a story-related chapter--the story effectively ends at Chapter 2. Also, if I missed any tags, please tell me! This is only beta'd by me, and I kind of threw it out here real fast. Well, fast for me. Please be gentle.

It’s not personal.

Maybe it’s a little personal, but not against _him_. Not against the other poor soul stuck in this ring, both their blood staining the sand, sun brutal, glaring overhead and cooking them in their metal helms. No, this is life or death. Neither of them want to be here, both of them are desperate, and all of them, everywhere, from the people crowding the stands to the emperor in his shaded seat to the handlers and slaves waiting in the wings—they all want to see blood. It’s savage, is what it is. It’s primal and ruthless and savage, and it’s absolutely not personal.

Except when it is.

It’s not personal for this man, because he only cares if he lives or dies. It’s personal for Bucky, though, because he has someone waiting for him. Someone he needs to take care of, or no one else will. A scrawny blond slave who will go back to unkind touches and backbreaking labor, passed around until he dies if Bucky doesn’t win. Bright blue eyes haunt him, put light in his veins and his heart. He’ll kill every living thing from here to Phoenicia if he has to, to keep that man safe.

He’s done his time. He’s calculated it, listened to what made the crowds roar the loudest, made his _editor_ smile the widest. He even listened to Steven, the slave he fights for now, on how to best seduce the bloodthirsty masses. Steven is rarely wrong, smart where his body is weak. Bucky has fighting down to an art, and he only has one more match to go after this one. One more, and he hopes to buy himself free.

Batroc the Slayer is a crowd favorite, and it’s easy to see why. The man is both massive and agile, wearing and wielding heavy items like they’re nothing. Bucky’s seen him training before, so he knows the man must have a feral grin on under that helmet.

There! Bucky dances out of the way of a solid blow, pivoting with it, trying to use the momentum to strike Batroc with the pommel of his short blade, but it doesn’t work, the angle is wrong, and all it does is enrage the larger man. He’s so damn _fast_. Bucky barely has time to block, skidding on the treacherous sand when Batroc’s heavy _scutum_ slams into him full-bodied. He’d fall if he hadn’t reached up to hook his own _parmula_ over the top of the large rectangular shield, leveraging his weight into the move.

He doesn’t notice Batroc’s fist in time, crashing against the side of his head, making the confined space inside his helmet ring disorientingly, blocking out even the roar of approval and excitement from the crowd. It must look amazing, him clinging to this massive man, out-armored and only his last weapon in hand.

But he can’t lose, he _can’t_ , because maybe it’s not personal for Batroc, who fights for his own life and perhaps for fame, but it’s personal for Bucky, who fights for a blue-eyed slave with wit and compassion and indomitable will, who will be passed around until he breaks—body or spirit, it doesn’t matter. He only lives while Bucky does, ever since his first right to pick from the company whores, when he pulled another gladiator off a male prostitute, Steven, who had a face dripping with blood and a look that could light the sacrificial pyres of Mars. He’d bitten the other man’s cock out of some kind of spite, hair a mess and a series of rough scratches marring his dirty face. Bucky had fallen in love almost instantly. He snatched at Steven before the blond could be dragged to the whipping post, and had even given in to Steven’s stubborn refusal to leave without another timid girl in tow.

He’d been defending her, of all things. A whore defending a whore, because she had been scared of the man choosing her, who’d been fined twice already for leaving his playthings too broken to use any longer. But Brock is a prized gladiator, ruthless and slightly mad, and he’s too lucrative to beat or put to death, or even to trade. So Steven had volunteered to take her place and promptly bitten Brock as soon as the gladiator’s cock was stuffed into Steve’s mouth. Bucky _still_ wants to applaud when he recalls that memory. He buys Steve’s time as much as he can. Everyone knows better than to treat Steve too roughly, because Bucky’s favored status rubs off a bit on his things too, but if he dies then Steve goes back to being a weak, problematic burden with a reputation for poor behavior and a volatile temperament.

It takes precious seconds for both the ringing and the thoughts to clear his head, and in that time Batroc has twisted free, already surging up with his _gladius_. Bucky’s shield arm is wide—too wide, but then so is Batroc’s, and his only option is to lunge into the _murmillo_ ’s space, spinning his dagger blade-down, using the metal to lock their sword hands together at the wrist so he can kick as hard as he knows how with this right foot, planting firmly on Batroc’s ribs and tipping him back with enough torque that Bucky thinks he can feel something snap in the lock he still holds with his left. He releases immediately and jumps free, staggering with nerves and the renewed ringing that comes with the crowd’s approving cheers. He strides over and picks up Batroc’s sword, disarmed from Bucky’s maneuver, and tosses it away. It’s stupid, maybe, to get rid of the longer weapon. All he has is his knife, but it’s more than enough to slit someone’s throat, and Batroc won’t be able to bend down long enough to grab a sword without leaving himself open.

He starts across the sand in the prowling stalk that earned him the epitaph “Winter Soldier,” flipping the knife in his hand for pure showmanship. He’d never do it otherwise; it’s a waste of time he can ill afford in a fight, but with luck he’ll be out of this accursed place by the time the sun sinks below the horizon. And sometimes luck depends on the favor of the crowd.

By the time he’s at Batroc’s prone form, the man has wrestled one hand free and hastily raises two fingers—defeat. Asking for his life. Bucky stops and turns to the stands, where he knows the emperor sits with his wife and son. He reaches up and yanks his helmet off, discarding his shield as well; shakes his hair out of his face and rakes his hands through the sweaty strands to the roaring approval of the audience. 

This is it—no matter the outcome here, so long as he’s done well, he’ll have enough to buy himself free. The price of one life. He’ll have it soon. So close he feels as though he could grasp it like a physical thing. It’s a shame that Batroc’s life will depend on the fickle crowd, but Bucky is prepared to do whatever it is he needs to. Twelve fights, he’s done. Three draws, one loss in all that time. It’s cutting his luck close, living this long. One day he won’t return from the sands.

“Spare him!” the crowd roars. “ _Missio_!”

But what they want doesn’t really matter; not to Bucky. He keeps his eyes on the emperor, who finally stands until his people hush of their own accord.

“Winter Soldier!”

Bucky kneels in fealty his does not feel.

“This marks your ninth win.”

This is the truth. There is nothing to say to that, even if he were allowed to speak.

“Always you have fought well. Tireless and strong. Today, as a boon to my lady-wife, I will offer you a rare choice.”

His words have the people on edge. This is unheard of. Bucky tenses all over. Choices offered to people like him don’t often end well.

“We have one more day of celebration, and we would like to end it spectacularly. So, today you may take the life of Batroc the Slayer—” The crowd boos and jeers, “—and take on the debt he owes, or you may fight tomorrow at the final showing. Take your tenth win, and so will I grant your _rudis_.”

It’s a risk. A huge risk. Batroc, he knows, owes at least a year yet. Another year in this hell. But the last fight tomorrow will be a three-way skirmish done _sine missione_ —without mercy. He’ll walk away a free man or not at all. So, kill Batroc and gamble on his life for another year, or fight tomorrow and gamble it all at once? If it were only him in the balance, he would stay the year. It’s unlikely that he would not have the money to buy himself free, or the time to fill Batroc’s contract, by the end of the sentence. But it’s not only him; it’s Steven as well. In a year he might succumb to illness or abuse. And winning tomorrow will leave Bucky not only with enough to buy Steven free, but to buy them both a home to retire to, if the emperor bestows the _rudis_ without Bucky having to buy back his own price. Either way, it will ultimately benefit the people who own and borrow him: If he lives another year, his popularity in new fights will swell the stands and command a high price. If he dies tomorrow, Batroc still lives as the last man Bucky fought. Even if Bucky wins, the rare event of a _rudis_ being granted will fuel the more harmless gossip in the city and trade routes for at least another year, not to mention making the emperor look just but kind.

In response, Bucky straightens and walks to where Batroc now kneels, waiting his judgement. It’s a testament to his character that he doesn’t beg, even in his expression. His eyes are hard and determined. Bucky walks up to him, and though it seems to grate on the man’s pride, Batroc grips Bucky’s thigh in the traditional pose for execution. The whole world seems to hold its breath, waiting for him to decide.

The knife falls at his feet. There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then the two gates on either side of the arena are opening. The crowd screams both their names, stomping and waving brightly colored cloths in excitement. The Slayer lives. Tomorrow, the Winter Soldier will fight to the death. Bucky strides through the victor’s gate, heart heavy and muscles burning, and wonders if he should re-write his will.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that Chapter 3 is actually historical reference, as well as definitions of all the italicized items. That means that the next chapter is the last one with any story in it. <3
> 
> Comments and kudos are my life-blood.
> 
> \-------
> 
> (psst! Look at my bingo square!)
> 
> Look at my bingo square!  
> [](https://imgur.com/Ny0G01o)  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I don't know what I'm doing I'm so sorry.

There are all manner of things he can request, since his last fight will be tomorrow. It’s nearly unheard-of to fight two days in a row, and no one quite seems to know what to do with it. He’s given time to rest, all the water he could possibly want, and offered slaves to massage his aching muscles and apply salves to his wounds. He waves away every single one and orders the last to fetch Steven. Sometimes being a gladiator has its perks, because when the boy tries to stammer out a protest, Bucky just gives his best arena glare and pretends he hasn’t heard. They send Steve in not long after.

“You’re stupid,” Steve declares as soon as the room is clear. And, yes, this is the kind of spirit that Bucky loves. The blond goes immediately to him and inspects his wounds, apparently assessing if the others’ jobs have lived up to his standards. All the bandages and salves pass, so he drags over a stool and a bottle of oil for a massage. “A year is nothing. Two, perhaps three more fights?” He waits impatiently while Bucky lays on his front on the table, relaxing his arms to his sides. Steve’s agile fingers, so much stronger than his frame suggests, run smoothly across his skin, warming the oil and checking him for smaller scrapes and bruising.

“At the least you would have been fresh for your next fight. Need to make such a big show of yourself that you can’t wait for the next one?” Steve asks bitterly. But his hands are still caring while they knead Bucky’s flesh, slowly digging deep and push-pulling muscles into dissipating the acid and tension they carry from the day. His joints especially are protesting, and Steve makes sure to gently flex each one, paying attention even to Bucky’s ankles and toes.

“You know I don’t _want_ to die,” Bucky replies, irritated. “I’m not like some of the others, in it for the glory. You’re even the one who taught me how to make a show of it! Pretty and fake as a paste jewel, you said.” Steve is the smart one between the two. Intellectually, at least, because he apparently lacks the common sense of a brick.

“I told you what would look nice to the audience. Not what to do,” Steve huffs. They stew at each other over the sound of Steve beating Bucky’s muscles into submission and Bucky’s sad attempts to resist the sounds of pleasure that leave his mouth as his body melts under the ministrations. “Flip over; go on.”

When he does so, he sees that Steve’s eyes are a little red, although the smaller man says nothing; just spreads more oil on his hands and waits for Bucky to lie back down.

“You’re not any good dead,” the blond mutters.

“Neither are you,” Bucky counters immediately. He can tell that Steve wants to argue, but to his surprise the smaller man holds his tongue. He’s not sure what Steve is thinking—Bucky hasn’t told him about his plan yet. Steve might suspect, but he doesn’t _know_ the depth of feeling Bucky holds for him, or how far the gladiator will go to keep the source of that feeling alive. People like them don’t have the luxury of love. But if they were free… Free men can have that. Love. A life together.

Bucky just has to earn it first.

He’s so lost in thought that he almost doesn’t notice his body’s own reaction to the gentle but firm touch of the blond’s hands on his skin. Almost.

“Shall I take care of that, sir?” Steve asks coyly. He’s working his way back up from Bucky’s shins, hands already on his inner thighs, by the time Bucky’s erection swells enough to become unignorably obvious.

He considers refusing—he really should rest, not exert himself more. And there are a few superstitions about sleeping with someone before a match. Of course, there are an equal number of gladiators with a ‘pleasure while you can’ philosophy. 

“You don’t have to,” is what he decides on. No one gives slaves options. Bucky knows that full well, and it’s nice to be able to offer it to someone else. He sees the self-doubt on Steve’s face as soon as he raises his head. “But if you did, I would lo—I would enjoy it,” he hastens to add. “Greatly.”

That makes the other man smile again, this time in a carnal way that makes Bucky’s erection swell even more. That doesn’t escape Steve’s attention, and he strokes one slick finger up the underside of Bucky’s cock and over the slit, making it bob gently against his stomach. Bucky sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly and unbearably turned on.

“Because having a willing body in your bed is such a hardship,” Steve teases. It has a bitter edge to it, though. He truly believes that he is an eyesore to others. He’s just too stubborn to give up.

That gets Bucky to sit up properly and grasp Steve’s wrist before he can withdraw. “You are no hardship to me,” he says firmly. He holds Steve’s gaze until the other man looks away, blushing slightly. Instead of finding a response to that, he climbs onto the table with Bucky, setting the vial of oil by the gladiator’s head and straddling his waist. Bucky doesn’t really blame him for turning to sex—it’s one of the pitiful handful of ways Steve has at his disposal to convey gratefulness, although it’s the soft look in his eyes that truly touches Bucky.

Bucky grips Steve’s wrist again, this time to transfer some of the slick to his own hand, and brings Steve’s fingers to his lips. “Do I need to open you up?” _Has anyone touched you_ is what they both know he’s really asking. Not that Bucky particularly cares, mind you. They’re both well aware that Steve is property of the company in general, and he has no choice in such things. Still, Bucky’s influence tends to afford some protection, and Steve is good at delicate tasks as well. Not like some of the others in his situation.

“Please,” is Steve’s only reply. So Bucky works the oil around his fingers and reaches behind Steve, skating carefully across his work-rough skin to find the tight pucker of flesh. The blond lifts his hips obligingly, eyes slipping shut with pleasure when Bucky finds and runs his fingers lightly over his hole. Steve tips forward slightly, bracing one hand on the cool stone table by Bucky’s head and the flat of his other arm on Bucky’s broad chest. “Please,” he whispers again.

Gods, how does Bucky resist that? “I’m sure you’re this sweet to all the gentle ones,” Bucky teases lightly, already pressing the tip of one finger in. Not all the way; a tease.

Steve cants his hips back searchingly. “No,” he murmurs, lips now at Bucky’s collarbone. “I’m not sweet, Bucky. And none but you are gentle, least of all with me.”

Bucky knows the other man is telling the truth. He’s seen (and, on one occasion, heard) evidence of this. But as mixed as his feelings are about Steve perhaps having other favorites (even loves) among the others, he would have liked to know there would be someone there after him to look after Steve if he dies tomorrow. “Samhail,” Bucky tries. The dark man is hard but kind by nature.

“Please, Bucky.” Steve shifts until he can fist Bucky’s long hair into both his hands, bunching it between his fingers, blue eyes wide and pleading. “Please, don’t talk of the others. Don’t make me… we _can’t_ … Just… please, let me give you this.”

Bucky can see the beginning of tears in Steve’s eyes, and he knows the other man will be angry about them, so he grasps the back of Steve’s head in his free hand and crushes their lips together, leaving the blond to flail for his own balance, finally curling up so he sits astride Bucky’s waist, bending over in what must be an uncomfortable hunch so that he can frame the brunet’s face in turn, kissing his cheeks and neck and face before returning to those sinful lips.

And it’s desperate, and heated, and at once nothing and everything Bucky ever wanted. It feels particularly charged, Steve not even waiting for permission to swipe inside Bucky’s mouth to mingle their tastes together and explore feverishly, like they’re on an invisible timer.

Bucky realizes that they are, really. He has dinner and then a strict regimen of rest, then breakfast and washing, warming up and then… Not to mention whatever task Steve will be missing should he stay too long here. But, gods all damn it, he’s going to enjoy this as much as he can. If he dies tomorrow, he can at least have this. If not, maybe he can convince Steve that he loves him as a man, and maybe Steve will believe him when he comes for the transfer of sale papers that will be his first purchase after that _rudis_ is in hand. So he forces himself to go slower. He doesn’t want a quick fuck; a release of tension. He wants to show the depth of his feeling for this man in the only way they both know how: their bodies.

He takes as much time as he dares preparing Steve to take him, adding generous amounts of oil when he can manage it, until it’s slicked up both of the smaller man’s cheeks and threatens to drip to his balls. Steve whines and fidgets into it, unused to the attention and playful touches, but it makes him growl appreciatively into their kiss, which has become something honey-slow and just as sweet. Steve, Bucky has learned, has enough strength of spirit but not of body, with the result that he pushes himself harder, spreads himself thinner, blames himself more than any other single person Bucky can think of. It’s exhausting for Steve, and fills him with rage and fire and helplessness so much that he can’t stand it. That sometimes, Steve _believes_ in the punishments meted out to him, and Bucky relishes when he can slip past Steve’s walls just enough to be able to offer comfort.

He senses that this may be one of those times, so he takes it so, so slowly. One finger, and then two, and Steve is bossy and tries to push back, but Bucky locks the smaller man by his waist and undulates between them, giving both their cocks much-needed friction.

“I won’t break, Bucky,” Steve growls. It’s ruined when he shivers and ruts against him once more.

“I know you won’t,” Bucky whispers into golden hair. “But let me have this. Let me treat you as I believe you should. As _I_ want to treat you. I don’t need to test you to know you are strong. I know you are. You are the strongest man I know.”

“I…” Bucky never finds out what Steve was going to say, because instead of finishing it, Steve curls even further and takes one of Bucky’s nipples delicately between his teeth, reaching up to knead the sensitive flesh behind Bucky’s ears and _oh_. He didn’t realize that Steve had memorized all his erotic zones, because the spike of heat coming from his chest combined with the bone-warming pleasure near his ears is good enough to make him moan and half-melt into the table under them.

Steve frees one hand, switching his mouth to Bucky’s other nipple with much more energy, and reaches behind himself to bury another finger in his ass, sliding it in alongside Bucky’s two, making the brunet startle and then moan at the erotic image this paints in his head. Part of him wishes there were a reflective surface so that he can see the play of his fingers, tan and calloused and large, beside Steve’s, pale and delicate and so sure. Steve soon slips another of his fingers in, using them to nudge deeper and igniting Bucky’s arousal until it burns bright and irresistible. He’s not as delicate as he wants to be, now, stretching Steve maybe a little faster than he ought, taking over greedily and gripping Steve’s slim waist with his free hand hard enough to bruise.

“Now, Bucky,” Steve whispers wetly in his ear. “Have me, please.” His pale, trembling hand drips with oil now, reaching to coat his own hole and Bucky’s cock. It’s an almost excessive amount, and it smells a little of flowers, but it’s warm and it feels heavenly when Steve works himself back onto Bucky’s cock. As soon as he has the head in, the blond moans and carefully maneuvers himself upright so he can inch the gladiator into him. Bucky watches in fascination as he disappears into Steve’s heat, the point where they are connected shining even in the low light of the room. Steve’s lashes flutter madly as he tries to keep his eyes open through the stretch and burn of it, and Bucky is reduced to stroking over Steve’s straining thighs and the globes of his ass. He’s tight—virgin-tight, every time, and Bucky has no idea how he does it. Perhaps it’s because his body is so small that there isn’t much of him to displace when entering. Either way, Bucky finds that by the time he’s as far into Steve as physically possible, he’s forgotten to breathe. The air leaves his lungs in a rush, making his stomach muscles contract and his cock jerk, and Steve rolls his head back and grinds into even that little bit of motion.

The blond moves his body again, gyrating to adjust to Bucky’s girth, and it’s all the brunet can do not to lift the slender man and spear him back onto his cock, again and again until they’re both sticky with sweat and come and tomorrow is only a vague thought in their heads. But that’s not what this is about, and Bucky needs his strength for tomorrow, and he can’t afford to forget that.

So as soon as Steve seems comfortable enough to move properly, after he’s planted his hands on Bucky’s chest to rock back with more force, the brunet smoothly flips them both over, limbs clamped around Steve to keep them locked together. There’s a terrible moment when he thinks he’s miscalculated and they’ll fall of the edge—it’s not _that_ big of a table, after all—but Steve apparently has better reflexes than he’s given credit for and does a little twist that has him fully under Bucky with only their arms dangling off the side. Bucky corrects even that when he rearranges himself with Steve’s legs hitched around his waist, one hand going under the blond’s head and neck to keep him from hurting himself on the stone. He finds Steve’s waiting hole before the other man can complain and slides smoothly in, and it’s warm and just right and feels a little like coming home. Steve turns his face to rub his cheek on the hand Bucky uses to cradle his head and brushes chapped lips against the fingers there, soft and vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with their stations.

He undulates carefully, maneuvering Steve’s body until the other man’s eyes fly open on a gasp. He gives in to the urge to smile smugly. To others, the blond’s pleasure would be incidental, but Bucky prides himself on knowing Steve well enough to evoke it at will. He grinds in again just to be sure, and feels Steve’s skinny limbs spasm around him, his head falling back on Bucky’s hand and fingers scrabbling for purchase on his broad back.

“Gods,” Steve moans, dark flush already working its way down his body.

“Don’t bring them into this,” Bucky murmurs in his ear. He pulls out just enough to hitch Steve’s breath when he snaps back in. “Well, I suppose there are one or two who would be interested. Shall I give them something to listen to?”

Blue eyes fly open, and Bucky doesn’t know or care if it’s in reply to the sacrilege or because he’s slammed home once again, but he does the latter again anyway. Steve’s arms and legs clutch him closer and he feels the deep scratch of nails into his flesh and—yes, _there_ is the sound he was waiting for: the small moan that escapes mindlessly; the whine coming from the back of Steve’s throat. Bucky buries the face in Steve’s neck, setting his lips to the other man’s throat to feel the vibrations there. He keeps his pace, slow and hard and careful, until the blond is writhing under him and pleading to him and the gods for something unnamed.

He feels slim fingers tangle into his hair, raking through it and scratching his scalp before Steve remembers to be more gentle, turning it into a light grip and fingers dragging firm over his head and neck. And damn if that doesn’t make him purr like a cat, low and rumbling in his chest. It makes Steve moan even louder; makes him tighten and clench around Bucky, pulling him in, body desperately trying to keep him there.

It’s more work in a different way, keeping things at this sinuous pace. Steve presses in on all his senses: how he smells underneath it all, like clean sweat and cool ice; the breathless noises he makes, heavy with approval; the sight of his slick skin and whiplash lean muscles straining for the man on top of him. Bucky can’t help but speed up his pace as he gets close, making Steve’s moans louder. He’ll give them both away, but as long as the room is clean by the next time someone else has to use it, Bucky doubts anyone will care.

When he gets close, he wraps one arm under Steve’s hips and heaves them both until they’re sitting up. Steve looks dazed for only a moment, until Bucky urges him on by pulling the smaller man down on his lap sharply. Then he’s bracing himself on Bucky shoulders and undulating down, building momentum until he’s bouncing in Bucky’s lap, grinding him deep every few seconds.

“Fuck, Steve, I’m close,” Bucky groans into Steve’s neck.

“Please.” Steve doubles his efforts, rolling his hips in a way that must be exhausting but feels like heaven on earth for Bucky. “Please let me ha-ave it.”

Bucky bites down into Steve’s bony shoulder as he comes, almost hard enough to draw blood but muffling his loud moans as he releases into Steve’s body with a heady rush. He can hear Steve’s hoarse cry when Bucky’s teeth clamp down; feel the way Steve tightens his muscles and rotates his hips to milk Bucky of everything he has, but it’s all distant somehow, felt through a haze of pleasure.

He seizes Steve’s mouth in a searing kiss as soon as he can move enough to do so. Steve is still catching his breath, bracing to climb out of Bucky’s lap, but he stops in surprise when Bucky yanks him close. Steve probably assumes that Bucky has forgotten about him, now that he’s come, and that’s probably insulting on some level because Bucky has never, _never_ left Steve without.

He reaches behind the blond and swipes up some of the come now leaking out, then brings his hand to the front and grips Steve’s prick with what he knows is the perfect amount of pressure. Steve starts, eyes and mouth wide, and then he closes both and shudders when Bucky pumps his fist. He starts with a quick pace, because Steve’s dick is already full and deep red with blood. His thumb plays just under the head, and he adds a little twist of his wrist every few strokes, and all of a sudden Steve is shouting and coming between them, ribbons of come coating Bucky’s hand and both their stomachs. It makes his hole clench rhythmically around Bucky’s oversensitive cock, and he groans softly, squeezing Steve again in turn. A little more come dribbles out of Steve’s cock before he bats Bucky’s hand away. When he finally finds the energy to pull away and climb off Bucky’s lap, the brunet is ridiculously pleased to watch his own semen slip from between Steve’s pert cheeks. He does feel a little bad at how Steve’s gait now has a mild hitch in it, though.

The blond tosses him a towel and he cleans himself off before handing it back for Steve to use too.

“You should eat something and sleep,” Steve says finally. He’s already grabbing scrubbing sand and some water and rags to clean up the room. “You still have tomorrow, after all.”

Bucky swoops in for another kiss, nearly chaste compared to the others they’ve shared today. When he wins tomorrow, he’ll tell Steve his plans for their future, where they have their freedom and their own hearth, and maybe a bed that Bucky will make for them both but that no one else will need to know about.

“I’ll come back,” he promises.

“They all say that, Bucky.” Steve’s face is quickly losing its glow, going soft and sad at the edges.

“I’m different.” He expects some of Steve’s quiet sass. _‘Oh, sure,’_ or _‘Just because you’re pretty.’_ But instead, Steve just says, in a quiet sort of way:

“Yes. You are.”

It makes Bucky’s heart leap into his throat. The way Steve says it… It’s so sincere. Maybe it’s possible Steve could care for him as much as he does for Steve? But he has to shove it to the back of his mind; wall it off with the other distractions. He can only have room for his body and the battle ahead if he’s going to win. Still, he steals one more kiss before he goes.

“I’ll come back. For you,” he repeats with as much conviction as he can infuse into five words. The other three words press the back of his teeth, but he’s saving those for after tomorrow. After he leaves the arena for the last time, one way or another.

* * *

Bucky says nothing. He hasn’t allowed a single word to pass his lips since he said goodbye to Steve last night. He still has one bandage around his bicep, under the _manica_ , but anything else would hinder him too much. The sun is highest in the sky—this will be the last fight for today, and everyone knows it. The stone around him vibrates with the force of the spectators’ yelling and stomping.

One last check of all his equipment, and a handler secures his helmet. He looks to either side, where two more grim-faced gladiators are receiving the same treatment. The helmet locks in place and they spread out as the gate clanks open.

He can almost feel the others assessing his weaknesses from the fight yesterday, wondering how tired he will be; how injured. He doesn’t care. He pulls his mind and body together, centered.

He made a promise. He has someone to go back to. He has three words still locked away. They are the only words he has left, from last night until he leaves the arena today. No others will pass his lips until then. The gates finish opening and the roar of the crowd rushes in.

Bucky settles his grip on his weapons; waits for the other two to start forward.

He steps onto the sand.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! The next ‘chapter’ is research I wanted to share in case anyone was curious, and also because I kept using Roman terms for things. I’m not sure why it mattered to me to be nearly-historically-accurate about JUST gladiators and equipment, but there you go.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are all welcomed and loved. <3


	3. Notes and Definitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you were expecting more story. I might have done more research than necessary, so... I just need to share. Take it.

_Murmillo_ : Also known as a “myrmillo.” In the modern day, words like “myr” and “myrmidon” (I’m looking at you, MtG players) are derived from this. Murmillo gladiators were arguably one of the most popular gladiator types, as they were large and easy to recognize from afar. These were designed to remind the audience of a Roman soldier. They bore a _scutum_ , which was the largest shield available, a _gladius_ , and had protection for one arm and both shins. Their shin greaves were usually made of light metal. This is what Batroc is in the story.

_Hoplomachus_ : Designed to resemble a Greek soldier (“hoplites”), this gladiator was one of two types to traditionally fight the _murmillo_. They had three weapons: a spear, a _gladius_ , and a short dagger known as a _pugio_. Their armor included a metal or cotton segmented _manica_ and high long linen or cotton greaves to protect their thighs since they had smaller shields. They also had the distinctive _parmula_. Bucky is a left-handed _hoplomachus_ , meaning the _manica_ is on his left arm. This was the closest I could get to making him the Winter Soldier.  <3

_Scutum_ : A large, rectangular shield used by certain types of gladiator. Think of it as a tower shield. They were typically about 40 inches tall, which is more than half the height of an average male. If you think of a Roman legionnaire, chances are good that you’re imagining them with one of these shields.

_Parmula_ or _parma_ : A small circular shield, around 36 inches or smaller in diameter, usually with metal in the frame. If you’ve ever seen 300 (with Gerard Butler), the Greek army wield the troop-standard (and also largest) of this type of shield. Those wielded by _hoplomachus_ were probably much smaller, but made of a single sheet of metal. 

_Manica_ : A type of armor worn on the sword-arm for protection. These were usually made of layers of segmented cotton or linen, but could also be made of metal.

_Gladius_ : You probably know this one. The standard weapon for a gladiator (and its namesake), the _gladius_ is a short sword with a double edge and a pointed tip designed for thrusting. They could also be used for slashing motions, although because of the way most military fought at the time (blows from behind large shields), its primary function would likely have been short, stabbing thrusts.

_Missio_ : (Mercy, dismiss) This is a plea for mercy, or to spare the life of a gladiator. A defeated gladiator could sometimes cry this or put a finger (or two) up to signal that he was pleading for his life. At this point, the decision was up to the sponsor for the games to have the gladiator killed or allow him to walk away, although we’re sure that the desire of the audience had a lot to do with it.

_Sine missione_ : This kind of fight would be without reprieve for the gladiators involved. No one could ask for mercy. Essentially, a fight _sine missione_ would be a fight to the death.

_Rudis_ : A _rudis_ was likely practice weapon such as a wooden sword or rod. In the gladiatorial arena, this was symbolic of the gladiator’s freedom. One could be awarded if the gladiator had done particularly well, or had paid for his freedom. Famously, there were two gladiators who fought for (possibly?) hours—an ungodly amount of time, at any rate. They both acknowledged defeat at the same time out of respect for each other, and the sponsor granted them both with a _rudis_ , freeing both men on the spot. 

_Editor_ : Also “publisher,” which is one of the dictionary meanings for the word. This was the title for whomever was sponsoring the games, distinct from the person who actually owned the gladiators. 

  
  


**Regarding freedom:** Most gladiators didn’t live long enough to earn their own freedom. The average gladiator would fight maybe three times in a year, and on average ones that lived to be free fought around 10 times, or for 3 to 5 years. If you actually lived this long and were freed, you could put yourself back into the ring voluntarily, although you would sign yourself away to a sort of temporary slavery. There was a gladiator who was famous for being awarded the _rudis_ four times, and each time went back to the arena. He fought more than 30 battles before he died (approx. age 30).

  
  


For reference, I have [labelled a picture of a _murmillo_ vs _hoplomachus_.](https://i.imgur.com/tBDYGB9.png) I may have added a bunch of unnecessary commentary because I was having too much fun being terrible at Paint. And also because I think I’m hysterical.  
  
  



End file.
